


A Puzzle of Time

by koalaboy



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Drug Addiction, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Institutional Abuse, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Violence, Other, Psychological Torture, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21884854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalaboy/pseuds/koalaboy
Summary: Jon leaned his head against the cell wall and sighed, “Edward… what’s today?”“Thursday. Why?”Jon closed his eyes, “Because the last thing I remember is Monday afternoon.”An account of what happened in the days before Doctor Jonathan Crane was admitted to Arkham.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane & Edward Nygma, Jonathan Crane & Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	1. Thursday

**Thursday, 09:28 a.m.**

Jonathan stirred in his sleep with a soft groan. His eyes felt heavy, which was odd considering he was a fairly light sleeper. He forced them open nonetheless, stubbornly waking despite the large amount of medication in his system. He went to wipe the sleep from his eyes, but discovered to his alarm, that his wrist was bound to the bed. Handcuffs, he reasoned, by the sound they made against the bed frame. He stared up at the ceiling, squinting and trying to discern where he was without his glasses. 

“They’ll give them back once they deem you cooperative,” came a voice. Jonathan recognised it as one of his patients - Edward Nygma.

He groaned, “I’m in hell, aren’t I? This is my eternal torment.”

“Not far off, actually.”

Jon rolled from the bed, sliding along the floor and forcing the handcuffs to the end of the frame so he could find where Edward’s voice was coming from. Three little slits in the brickwork - ventilation holes - provided a small empty space between the cells.

“Edward… are you… laying down on the floor to talk to me through the vents?” he asked. 

“...No,” came an uncertain reply.

Jon moved his head to try and look, but it sent a sudden jolt of searing pain through his entire side and he grunted. 

“Ah, they did a number on you.”

“And you deduced that, huh?” Jon muttered. He lifted up his shirt and inspected the river of yellow and purple splotches that travelled down his rib cage. 

“No, I saw them take you down.”

He leaned his head against the wall and sighed, “Edward… what’s today?”

“Thursday. Why?”

Jon closed his eyes, “Because the last thing I remember is Monday afternoon.”

There was stunned silence from the cell beside him and a scraping noise as Edward pushed a pen through the holes. 

“What’re you giving me this for?” Jon asked, his patience for games at an all time low.

“Words are our greatest weapon, Jonathan. They can unlock almost anything if you know what to do.”

He picked up the pen and stared at it for a moment in thought before he clamped it between his knees. He snapped the small metal clip off the side of it and slid it between the serrated locking edges of the cuffs until they released enough that he could pry his bony hand and wrist through. 

“You owe me a pen,” Edward said.

“Still works, doesn’t it?” 

Ed huffed and his voice became slightly muffled as he sat up, too. It was more of a relief for Jon than anything else. His head was pounding and Edward's voice did him no favours. 

“Do you want to know what happened?” He ventured. 

“Oh, because you know everything?”

“Because I observe far more than any expects me to. You know this.”

Jon’s body deflated as the cold bricks he was resting against sent a chill down his spine. 

“Go on, then, Edward,” he said, “Explain the solution to the puzzle.”


	2. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief consultation with Harley, a last-minute therapy session, and lab-rat maintainence.

**Monday, 04:41 p.m.**

Jonathan let out a soft sigh and leaned back into his chair. He scrolled through his emails and waited impatiently for the wifi at Arkham to load them. It crawled at a snail's pace which made doing anything productive exhausting. He tapped his fingers on his desk as his computer loaded an email from his old supervisor. They had finally reviewed his research and he was hoping they’d approve it for a journal. He’d had his eye on a Phobia journal in particular. 

‘Doctor Crane,’ it read, ‘Please be advised that your research has been reviewed by the committee. You are to present yourself promptly at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.’

He frowned and anger boiled just beneath the surface at the tone of the email, as if he had not just submitted a piece of breakthrough research and findings that could alter the way exposure therapy was performed. It seemed outrageous to him that he was not being patted on the back this instant for it. Still, he reminded himself, they were eager to discuss _something_.

A soft knock sounded against the wood of his office door. The cheerful grin of Harleen Quinzel -- the provisional psychologist and past student he had been supervising for almost a year now -- brought a smile to his face.

“Professor Crane? Do you have a moment?”

He nodded and gestured towards her, “Come in, child. My next session is at five.”

She sat opposite his desk and let out a soft sigh, “It’s been rough. I, um, I just had a patient try to attack me…”

Jon grimaced and stood so he could go to her side. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Unfortunately, these are the risks of our occupation. How are you holding up?”

She shrugged, “Fine, I guess. I just feel bad about what happened after. The guards really pounced on them.”

He nodded with a groan, “We can only hope to aid their recovery faster than the guards can undo our progress.”

She laughed softly, “Remember that time a patient took a shit during one of our supervised sessions?”

He laughed, too, “Yes. Not something you tend to forget.”

Her eyes brightened, “Oh, uh, the director put me on this new case today. It'll take a couple days to process, apparently."

“Mm?” Jon moved back to his desk to pack up his things. He grabbed his security clearance and strung the lanyard around his neck. 

“Yeah, apparently no one knows his real name. The Batman brought him in. Really strange. And we see a lot here.” 

Harleen allowed him to walk her out of his office and they continued down the hallway towards the lower-security building of Arkham. 

Jon frowned, “Have you performed any assessments yet?”

“No, I wanted to check in with you first. They won’t let me film any of the interactions for y’know, supervision stuff.”

Concern made him clench his jaw, “I don’t think a provisional psychologist should be given such a sensitive case. There are plenty of capable doctors here.”

She smiled brightly at him, “Don’t you worry ‘bout me, Professor. I know how to take care of myself.”

“Be that as it may, I’ll talk to the head tomorrow. Do not engage with the patient until you hear from me. Okay?”

She nodded, bouncing on the balls of her feet, “Okie dokie!”

The phrase made him laugh despite his usual abhorrence to sayings like that. He unlocked the therapy room and flicked the lights on; it illuminated the cheerful artwork and old, but inviting looking couches - a stark contrast to the higher-security rooms. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Quinzel.”

“Happy therapy!” She called, already turning to be on her way, probably to go home. In all honesty, he missed sitting with her, watching her positivity and openness truly help people. As she became more experienced, he simply monitored her through video recordings and provided feedback where he could. He had seen her grow over the past year as a practitioner and a person. There would be great things from her yet, he was sure of it.

Jon opened the curtains of the barred windows which looked out onto the garden. The garden was maintained mostly by self-admitted low-risk patients and it was ruined by staff who used it as a place to take smoke breaks and left their cigarette butts everywhere. He tidied up the children’s toys of the youth psychiatrist who sometimes used the room before him. He hated to think of children in a place like this, but thankfully the Thomas and Martha Wayne foundation had sponsored a children’s hospital on the main island of Gotham, so the rooms were only reserved for private patients - rich parents who didn’t want their embarrassment of a child to be seen in public. Once he was finished he sat on one of the leather sofas and picked up the out-of-date telephone on the coffee table beside him. He rang the nurses station.

“This is Doctor Crane. Please send in Miss Young,” he said in the most polite tone he could manage. The bitch that worked the nurses’ station hated him for some reason and he tried to keep a professional air about himself at all times. There was a grunt in response and then she hung up in his ear. He sighed and placed the phone back on its base. After a few moments, he heard the shuffling of feet and the door opened. 

“Please, take a seat,” he said, and gestured towards the chair opposite him.

Miss Young sat where she was told, a soft smile on her face. The nurse that had led her to the room closed the door behind her and left. 

“Hello, Doctor Crane,” she said, her voice brimming with excitement at seeing him again.

“Good afternoon, Caitlin,” he replied, “In our last session you seemed to be progressing quite well. You mentioned wanting to leave and I was happy to see on your file that your brother, Ben, is picking you up tomorrow. We agreed on terminating our relationship and my referring you. Can I ask why you’ve requested more sessions with me?”

Miss Caitlin Young was a thirty year old woman. She had round cheeks and thin hair which she wore up away from her face. She was brought into Arkham in the middle of a suicidal episode because she was deemed to be at risk to herself. She had been abused most of her life, mainly by her mother and ex-boyfriend. Her abortion of his child had triggered a violent fight between the two and she had fallen into substance abuse in the wake of it all. Arkham didn’t have a specific rehabilitation program and Jon was eager to find her somewhere that did, considering her suicidal thoughts had been manageable lately.

She swallowed and fidgeted with her hands. She grabbed a stuffed animal that was beside her on the sofa and hugged it to her chest. Her cheeks blushed a bright red.

“Doctor Crane, I-I think I… I think I have feelings for you.”

Jon was quiet, and then, after careful consideration, he nodded, “I see. And this has made it difficult for you to feel like you can move on?”

“No, no,” she insisted, “I really am in love with you. At night I sit in my room and I think about you. I touch myself and imagine you’re there. I can’t get you out of my mind.”

He cleared his throat, “Caitlin, you—“

“Please. Please, I’m begging you. I think you feel it, too. The way you look at me sometimes…”

She trailed off and bit her lip, looking at him eagerly for an answer. 

Jon took a breath, attempting to remain as gentle as a man with his features and disposition could seem, “While I don’t doubt your feelings, what I theorise may actually be happening is a phenomenon known as transference.”

She looked positively shattered. He had never dated anyone nor had to say ‘no’ to a crush, but he had consoled enough broken hearts in his time to know the rejection on her face. “Transference…?” she murmured, dropping her shoulders in defeat.

Jon nodded and let the silence sit between them so she could process it. 

“Often, a patient can develop feelings for a therapist because of the non-judgemental and empathetic way with which we engage our clients. Because you’ve had so little of this in your life, it might feel like the ‘missing piece’. Sexual fantasies are not uncommon.”

Caitlin looked down at her lap and sniffled. Jon reached for the tissue box and handed it to her. He waited calmly in the quiet so she didn’t feel rushed. 

“I’m sorry about all this… God, I must seem like an idiot right now…” she muttered.

“Not at all. Many of my colleagues are for more idiotic than you.” 

This caused her to let out a soft laugh, despite a few lingering tears. “Are you going to get rid of me now?”

Jon frowned in thought, “No. I don’t think it wise to do that. This can be very helpful to explore in therapy. However, if you still feel ready, I feel that leaving Arkham would be in your best interests.”

She let out a groan under her breath, “I guess it’s not exactly the most cheerful place. And I miss my bed at my brother’s so much.” 

Jon glanced at her wrists and felt relieved to see the scars there healing well. 

“He lives on the East side, correct?”

She nodded, “Mhmm.”

Jon stood and made his way to the desk so he could fetch a pen and paper. He wrote down an address and phone number for a rehabilitation centre that specialised in community programs, “I think this will be a good fit for your needs. I can send your information to them, but it is up to you to make an appointment. You’ll still see me, of course.”

Caitlin took the paper and slipped it into her pocket, “Have you sent other patients there? A lot of those places are sketchy. Selling drugs instead of getting you off them.”

He sat back down in front of her, “No, but I have been there myself as a patient.”

She blinked in shock and squeezed the pillow on her lap. Jon held his breath as he gauged her reaction. Self-disclosure was a rare thing for him. He hoped it would urge her to go through the program herself if she saw that it worked. However, it may also give her another reason to feel connected to him as a romantic interest. Caitlin smiled up at him, “I’ll call them the second I get back to Ben’s.”

“Very good,” Jon let out an almost-imperceptible sigh of relief.

She pushed her fringe behind her ears, “I really am sorry about all this.”

“Nonsense,” he assured her, “I’ll be happy to explore this with you at our next session. However, I am mindful of the time. You requested this appointment at such short notice I had to book this room for only thirty minutes as opposed to our usual hour together, so if there’s nothing else…”

She shook her head and shrugged, “I’m just… a little scared about being back in the ‘real world’, I guess.”

“You think that if you’re left to your own devices, you might relapse?”

“Mhmm. I should be excited to go home, right? And I am -- I was. But, the closer it gets, the more I feel like I’ll fail without someone telling me ‘sleep now’, ‘eat this’, ‘take your pills before bed’.”

“Structure will be an important part of your recovery,” Jon said. It had taken him a long time to realise staying up until midnight to finish a psychology paper so he could get high on the weekend was not what one might call ‘smart studying’. “The rehabilitation centre will be able to provide you with a structured setting in a more pleasant environment. And it’s not as if I won’t be able to guide you.”

She nodded, “Okay, okay. Thank you.”

Jon’s fingers hovered over the button to call a nurse, “Is that all?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Jon pressed the button, gave her a polite smile, and opened the door for her, “All the best for tomorrow, Caitlin.”

She grinned, although still a little unsure, “Goodnight, Doctor Crane.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, and gave a forced smile to the night-shift nurse as she led Caitlin away.

Jon closed the door and pressed his forehead into the welcoming, cold wood. He let out a long sigh and took his glasses off so he could rub his temples. He had found therapy incredibly tiring as of late. If he could just get his research article reviewed and published, he might be well on his way to leaving his clinical days behind. God knows the pay for being a professor at Gotham University was lacking. He turned the lights off and locked the door behind him. He hummed to himself as he made the long walk around the back of the low-security building, past the guards’ station and the small room with no security cameras where many of the nurses and guards gathered to play cards, smoke, or get high. 

The basement of Arkham Asylum was, technically, nonexistent. It wasn’t even on the most recent blueprints. Jon had stumbled across the stairway to the heart of the old Asylum by accident one day -- he had been attempting to find a place to avoid any sort of human interaction, having loathed every single member of staff that frequented the staff room. Unsurprisingly, the basement was almost perfect for his experiments. At first, as a lab to create the toxin, and now, as a place to conduct the research. It required little tinkering - only the addition of reinforced doors and locks. He took the key he wore around his neck and unlocked the door, slipping inside unnoticed. He flicked the bright fluorescent lights on and was greeted with a yell of pain.

“You fucking bastard!”

Jon raised an eyebrow, “Good evening to you, too, Mister Evans.”

“Fuck you,” he muttered. 

Jon tossed him a water bottle and he drank it without hesitation, the primal urge of thirst overriding any suspicions he might have had about what was in the water. The chains around his wrists rattled as his hands shook. It had been almost three days. Jon had to feel a certain amount of pride in how long he had been able to keep this one, but the experiment would require another participant if he were to continue.

“Tomorrow, I shall present all of my findings to the board. All of this work will finally be worth it.” 

There was a glint in his eye that made Evans avert his angry glare. Still, he felt as if he had to say something,  “You mean all the innocent people you traumatised down here, creep?”

Jon laughed, “Innocent? I think not. You, Mister Evans, are a rapist and a child murderer. You saw a loophole in the system, bribed a judge, and claimed the insanity defence. Not to mention, your presence in Arkham took a bed from people who truly needed to be here. The people I’m trying to help. You, and the others before you, were nothing but rats. And I am a believer in animal testing, if necessary.”

Evans shivered and felt his eyes go in and out of focus. His muscles relaxed against his will and he slumped against the wall. His breath caught in his throat, “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

Jonathan’s long limbs were a horrifying sight as he squatted down, his face mere inches from the other man’s, his eyes emotionless and a smile across his ugly features. 

“No,” he said, “I am a scientist.”

Evans’ eyes rolled back into his skull and Jon stood upright, uncurling his long spine. While he was asleep, Jon prepared a meal for him -- which was generous, to say the least -- and made sure he was secured. Wouldn’t want him going anywhere. Satisfied that everything was in order, Jon placed the food beside Evans and left him to sleep off the drugs. Tomorrow Jonathan Crane would change the world.


End file.
